Chapter 2: The Setup
1005 Words
The police station smelled like burnt coffee and desperation. Layla sat in a gray metal chair, hands folded to stop them from shaking.
Detective Reynolds looked like someone's disappointed father. Gray hair, tired eyes, and a rumpled shirt that had seen better days. He spread documents across the table between them.
"Mrs. Morrison, do you recognize these signatures?"
Layla leaned forward. Bank transfers. Checks. Wire authorizations. All bearing her name in blue ink.
"These look like my signature," she said slowly. "But I didn't sign these."
"These transactions total two million dollars over eighteen months." Reynolds tapped a stack of papers. "Money transferred from client accounts to offshore holdings."
"Offshore?" Layla's voice pitched higher. "Detective, I work in marketing. I don't even know what offshore holdings are."
"According to these documents, you're a fifty-percent owner of Morrison Holdings LLC. You authorized these transfers."
Layla stared at the papers. Her signature, over and over. Perfect copies of her handwriting.
"Someone forged these."She looked up at Reynolds. "My husband must have—"
"Your husband filed for divorce yesterday and immediately contacted authorities about suspicious activity in his business accounts." Reynolds leaned back. "He claims he discovered the irregularities during asset review for the divorce."
The room felt too small. Too hot. "Jason reported me?"
"He provided these documents to us. Says he had no knowledge of the transfers until his accountant flagged them."
Layla laughed, but no humor came out. "This is insane. Jason handles all the business finances. I've never even seen these accounts."
"Yet your signature authorizes everything." Reynolds pointed to a transfer dated last month. "This one moved four hundred thousand dollars the same day you deposited your paycheck."
"Because I was at work. At my job. You can check."
"We did. You were logged into the company system at 2:47 PM when this transfer was initiated."
"From where?" Layla's hands clenched. "Where was the transfer initiated from?"
Reynolds consulted his notes. "Your home office computer."
"I don't have a home office computer." The words came out too fast. "I use a laptop. Jason's the one with the desktop setup."
"Mrs. Morrison, we executed a search warrant this morning." Reynolds pulled out photos. "This is the computer found in your bedroom closet."
Layla stared at the pictures. A laptop she'd never seen before, hidden behind her winter coats.
"That's not mine."
"It's registered to your name. Purchased with your credit card."
"My credit card?" She fumbled for her wallet. "That's impossible. I have my card right—"
Her wallet was empty. The credit card slot where she always kept her Visa was vacant.
"Looking for this?" Reynolds held up a plastic evidence bag containing her missing card.
"Where did you find that?"
"In the laptop bag. Along with these." He showed her more bags. A flash drive. Notebooks with account numbers written in her handwriting. A fake passport with her photo and a different name.
Layla felt like she was falling. "This is all fake. Someone's setting me up."
"The forensic accountant traced the money to three different banks in the Cayman Islands. All accounts opened with your forged identification."
"Forged identification?"
Reynolds slid another document across the table. A bank application. Her photo, her signature, but the name read Sarah Mitchell.
"My husband did this." Layla's voice cracked. "Jason set me up."
"Your husband is cooperating fully with the investigation. He's provided all business records and passed a polygraph test."
"A polygraph test?" Her world tilted sideways. "You tested Jason but not me?"
"Mr. Morrison came to us voluntarily. You, Mrs. Morrison, are under arrest."
The handcuffs were heavier than she expected. Cold metal against her wrists as Reynolds read her rights. Words she'd heard on TV shows but never imagined hearing with her name attached.
"I want to call my sister," Layla said.
"You'll get your phone call at booking."
The processing room was worse than the interrogation room. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A bored officer took her fingerprints, rolling each digit across the ink pad with mechanical precision.
"Emma?" Layla gripped the phone like a lifeline when her sister finally answered.
"Layla? Where are you? You sound awful."
"I'm in jail." The words felt surreal coming out of her mouth. "Emma, I need a lawyer. A good one."
"Jail? What happened? Is this about Jason?"
"They're saying I stole money. Millions of dollars. But I didn't, Emma. I swear I didn't."
Silence stretched across the line. Then Emma's voice, smaller: "How much money?"
"Two million."
Emma sucked in a breath. "Jesus, Layla. Two million?"
"I didn't do it." Tears finally came, hot and angry. "Jason set me up. The divorce, the timing, everything. He planned this."
"Okay. Okay, breathe. I'll find you a lawyer. The best one I can afford."
"Emma, I can't pay—"
"Don't worry about money. Just... don't say anything else to anyone. Nothing. Promise me."
"I promise."
"I love you, Layla. We'll figure this out."
The cell was smaller than her walk-in closet. Gray walls, thin mattress, and a toilet that had seen better decades. Layla sat on the narrow bunk and stared at the ceiling.
Twenty-four hours ago, her biggest worry was whether to cook dinner or order takeout. Now she was facing federal charges for crimes she didn't commit.
Her cellmate was a woman named Rita with purple hair and arms covered in tattoos.
"First time?" Rita asked.
Layla nodded.
"What'd you do?"
"Nothing." Layla's voice was barely a whisper. "Absolutely nothing."
Rita laughed, but not meanly. "Honey, that's what we all say. But between you and me?" She leaned closer. "I believe you. You got that look."
"What look?"
"Like someone just burned down everything you ever loved."
Layla closed her eyes. Jason's face flashed behind her lids. The man who'd whispered promises in her ear. Who'd carried her over the threshold of their first apartment. Who'd held her when her father died.
That man was gone. Maybe he'd never existed at all.
"Yeah," she whispered. "That's exactly what happened.”
- Writer
